Perish from the Earth

by Jonathan F. Putnam

  “You’d think the town fathers would have tried to clear these out,” I said to Nanny Mae.

  She shook her head. “The impediments are central to their economy. Charging wharfage to arriving craft, flatboats and steamers alike, is the largest part of the city’s revenue.”

  “Look out for Paddy’s Hen!” shouted Pound as we veered near a plump island in the middle of the river.

  “There’s one navigable channel,” Nanny Mae continued, “and it runs right to the wharf. The local politicians make it a point of pride to oppose any river improvements.”

  “But why can’t ships simply go on past if they want to avoid the wharfage?” I asked.

  “Many a flatboat has tried and gotten wrecked. Or ended up going ’round and ’round in one of the whirlpools caused by the bars opposite the wharf. And the town’s organized two volunteer companies to aid their revenue collection. I’ve heard they stand on the bluff up there and fire muskets at any ships that try to run past without stopping to pay their toll to the wharfboat master.”

  Captain Pound walked over and, nodding at my saddlebags, said, “You’re leaving us?”

  “I am. I’m hoping to track down an old friend. Afterward, I’ll catch a ride on a packet upriver in time for Bingham’s trial in ten days’ time.”

  Pound played absently with one of the golden rings on his right hand. “Then I’ll see you back in Alton. Much against my will. Seems we need to appear for trial, me and my crew. The inspector, Daumier, has demanded it, and I’ve decided not to fight him.”

  I looked at Pound with surprise. But before I could interrogate him further, a crewman came up to ask a question, and the two of them walked away in close consultation. I was left to wonder what inducement Daumier possibly could have provided to convince the captain to be in Alton for the trial. It was, I thought, the last place he would have chosen to be.

  We were close to the landing now. There was a long wooden wharf at the river’s edge, to which was tethered a substantial wharfboat, a three-decker with the name Marmeon painted in fading lettering across the former pilot house. The wharfboat was an old steamer whose machinery and paddle boxes had been removed and which served as a kind of floating receiving station, general store, and hotel. The War Eagle eased in slowly toward the wharfboat, on whose bottom deck several hands waited to secure us.

  After we had tied up, Nanny Mae and I joined the line of disembarking passengers. My sister materialized next to us, her travel bags in hand.

  “I see you’re going ashore as well, Miss Bell,” I said, looking around warily at the crowd. “Would you honor me with a turn around the streets of this fair town? I hear the views from the bluff are quite impressive.”

  We walked across a short ramp to the main deck of the wharfboat, which was bustling with activity. Merchants with freight waited in a line to be assessed by the wharfboat master, a bald man with tiny spectacles who sat hunched over at a desk where the steamer’s boiler once sat, logging the freight in a thick ledger book and filling up a jar already brimming with gold and silver coins. Immediately behind the master’s perch was a row of small shops comprising the other services offered to travelers by the wharfboat operation: a chandler, barber’s shop, dramshop, forwarding agency, and post office.

  Martha and I followed the other passengers without freight to the wharf. I looked around for Nanny Mae, but she had disappeared into the departing crowd. So I led Martha up the stairs that had been cut into the bluff. Memphis was a modest village, extending but three or four streets back from the river’s edge. We walked along Front Street, gazing out the whole time at the river, which was several thousand feet across here. The cool afternoon sun shimmered on the cresting waters.

  “Lincoln said Ferguson’s plantation was over there, on the western shore,” I said once I had made sure no one from the boat was following us. “There must be a ferry we can catch.”

  We looked up and down the riverfront but couldn’t see any skiffs waiting to carry passengers across. I was about to head back into the wharfboat to ask one of the merchants when my sister pointed toward the river. “There!”

  A small flat ferry was indeed coming directly toward us. We scrambled down to the shoreline. As the boat approached, we could see it was being propelled by a snatch oar worked by an old Negro man with curly, graying hair. His ferry carried two men as passengers, although they sat with their backs to us.

  When the skiff got to within thirty feet, I called out, “You there! Are you familiar with the farm of a Colonel William T. Ferguson?”

  “Yessir, I am.”

  “Can you take us there as soon as you drop your current fare?”

  “I wouldn’t think you’d want me to do that,” the ferryman said, his face lit up by a broad smile.

  “The devil I don’t! I insist you row us over.”

  The ferry was a few feet from the wharf now, and without responding, the ferryman expertly stepped off with one of his bare feet and pulled his craft flush. His two passengers sprang onto the wharf. One of them was tall, with a beaked nose, long black hair ending in curls obscuring his ears, and prodigious whiskers that sprouted from his jaws like pieces of mutton. He was wearing a formal black frockcoat over a checkered, brightly colored vest. His companion was shorter and compact, with a sour expression and a stained work jersey that stretched to cover bulging forearms.

  To my surprise, the tall man strode directly over to us. “The reason Captain Limus won’t row you across the river,” he said, gesturing to the boatman, “is because I am Colonel Ferguson.”

  “I didn’t realize. We’re glad to find you. I’m—”

  “Wait! Don’t tell me!” He took a further step toward me and peered at my face, his nose not three inches from mine. He walked over to Martha and did the same. She recoiled in surprise. Then he said, “Mr. and Miss Speed, I presume.”

  CHAPTER 19

  “How could you possibly know that?” I demanded.

  “I don’t. Indeed, I doubt very much that you are truly Mr. Speed or that you,” he turned toward Martha, “are truly Miss Speed.”

  “But—”

  “I only know I received suspicious correspondence yesterday, from someone claiming to be an old acquaintance.” He reached into the pocket of his frockcoat and pulled out a letter, which he waved in the air. “The letter says I will have already seen a Mr. Speed and Miss Speed. But no such persons had presented themselves. And now the two of you appear.”

  “We’ve just arrived,” I said, pointing to the War Eagle in its berth, “on a ship that was mired in the bars for several days. I assume that letter is from my friend—and yours—Mr. Lincoln. It must have ridden aboard one of the steamers that passed us while we were stuck and thereby beaten us here. But we are the Speeds, I assure you.”

  Ferguson turned to his companion. “Run along on your business, Pickering. I’ll deal with these imposters on my own.”

  “We are not imposters,” protested Martha as the compact man trotted off in the direction of the wharfboat.

  “I think you’ve fabricated this letter of introduction and come to swindle me,” Ferguson said, though his expression remained cheerful.

  “Preposterous!” I said. “Lincoln said you might be able to help us, but if you mean to abuse us in this fashion, we shall leave your company straightaway.”

  “The Lincoln I knew was a flatboatman without a penny to his name. A rough creature who’d scarcely emerged from the backwoods. My correspondent”—he waved the letter again—“claims to be a man of law, letters, and the legislature. That’s what’s preposterous.”

  “The Lincoln you knew,” said Martha. “I expect he could talk a storm. Always a joke or tall tale on his lips?”

  “Never once stopped gabbing.”

  “There you have it. What other skill does a man need for the law or the legislature?”

  Colonel Ferguson laughed with delight. “I like you, my dear,” he said. To me, he added, “Your sister—if that’s truly your relat
ionship—would do very well for herself in these parts. The women are a triumphant minority here. The very homeliest woman in the county can get as many beaux as she wants. A woman of your so-called sister’s wit and beauty? She’d wield a sway that would be truly distressing.”

  “So you accept us as who we are?”

  “Certainly not,” said Ferguson with his unshakable good humor.

  I felt my face turning red. “Let’s go,” I said, grabbing Martha by the arm. “I’ll not spare another minute for this old fool.”

  “Wait!” cried Martha. “Lincoln told us to ask you about the Triple Link Fraternity.”

  Ferguson stared at her. He twirled the ends of his side-whiskers thoughtfully. “Did he indeed?” he said. “Well, tell me, miss—what did he say about this so-called fraternity?”

  “Not a thing, I’m afraid,” said Martha, her face falling. “I wish I could tell you something, to convince you we’re who we say we are. But he said he was sworn to secrecy.”

  “That settles it!” Ferguson threw out his hand and pumped mine. “So very nice to meet you, Mr. Speed. And you as well, Miss Speed,” he added, in one quick motion bowing before her, grasping her hand, and giving it a very demonstrative kiss. “Were you imposters, you would have worked out a better answer to the question. But your lack of guile reveals your true colors.

  “The three links,” he continued, “represent Friendship, Love, and Truth, the three virtues that we, the members of the Independent Order of Odd Fellows, hold dear. Of course, now that I’ve told you, I must swear you to secrecy as well.”

  “I swear it,” said Martha very seriously, her hand over her heart.

  “One can’t be too careful these days,” Ferguson said cheerfully. “How can I help you?”

  I pulled out Bingham’s drawing of Tessie. “We’re looking for this woman. Do you recognize her? Can you tell us anything about her?”

  Ferguson let out a long, slow whistle as he studied the picture. “So you’ve come to court Tessie Roman? You’re joining a long list. Her father’s cotton empire has made her a most popular young woman.”

  “I’m not after her heart,” I said. “In fact, we’re here on behalf of the man who’s already won it.” I explained about Bingham’s arrest, Lincoln’s role, and our hope that Tessie would serve as a witness on Bingham’s behalf at the upcoming trial.

  “You mean to bring her upriver with you?” Ferguson asked when I’d finished. His expression made it clear he viewed this as an unlikely proposition.

  “Once she realizes what’s at stake, I think she’ll demand to come,” said Martha.

  “I don’t doubt Miss Roman would steam away at a much slighter provocation,” said the colonel. “Or none at all. The problem’s going to be her father.”

  “It’s funny,” I said. “Bingham used the same phrase.”

  Ferguson nodded. “He and I have met the same man. Jacques Telesphore Roman is the most powerful man in the entire midriver area. It’s his way or no way at all when it comes to business. I’ve learned that lesson myself, several times. And from what I’ve seen, he treats his family with the same iron hand. Especially his precious eldest daughter. You don’t stand one chance in ten thousand of convincing him to let you take her away to this trial. And if he hears it’s to help the cause of her suitor, you’ll have even less of a chance.”

  “Still, we must try,” said Martha. “We’ve come all this way.”

  Two blasts sounded from the wharf behind us. The War Eagle’s stacks were belching smoke again, and the hands along the wharfboat were casting off her lines.

  “There goes Pound and his crew,” I said to Martha as we watched the boat start to pull away.

  “Richard Pound’s in charge of that ship?” asked Ferguson.

  “Do you know him?”

  “Not personally, but I’ve heard plenty of stories about him. Stories I’d not like to believe. I understand he’s an unreliable sort.”

  “I know it all too well from personal experience. My father, you see, owns the War Eagle. Pound’s captaincy has given us no end of trouble.”

  Colonel Ferguson looked at me with interest. “Then I think you should be careful with Pound—very careful—for your father’s sake. I don’t doubt your father’s an upstanding man. I wouldn’t want Pound to besmirch his reputation.”

  “I thank you for your advice.” I looked back at the picture of Tessie. “And for your advice about Miss Roman as well. As my sister says, we’ll have to try our best. We’ve promised Lincoln as much.”

  “Lincoln—I’d nearly forgot!” Ferguson cried. He drew Lincoln’s letter from his pocket once again. “There’s a message for you. Look.”

  Ferguson took a single folded sheet of paper from the envelope, and I recognized at once Lincoln’s hurried, slanted scribble. Ferguson pointed to a paragraph starting in the middle of the page. I read,

  If you still have a means of communicating with the Speeds, Colonel, I’d be grateful if you would pass along the following message. Please tell them I’ve received word on the circuit from Lovejoy that he’s uncovered information of interest relating to Bingham’s case. His message didn’t say what he’d learned. But he asked to meet me in St. Louis, at Jos. Conran’s boarding house on N. Front St. opposite the levee, in two Fridays to tell me in person. I’ve written back to say I’ll endeavor to meet up with him as specified. I’d be very grateful if Mr. and Miss Speed can arrange their travels to be there as well, in case I’m detained. And I imagine they’ll be interested in hearing themselves what Lovejoy has to say.

  I hope this letter finds you in good health, Colonel, and tolerably disposed toward Mrs. Ferguson, of whose own kindnesses I shall long retain a pleasant remembrance. Present my kind regards to her. If you are ever in my precinct, I hope you will knock on my door and allow us to recollect our prior days together.

  Yours as ever,

  A. Lincoln

  “The day we’re supposed to meet him—that’s the Friday before the start of trial, isn’t it?” asked Martha, who had been reading alongside me.

  I looked at the date of the letter and calculated forward. “Right. I believe it’s a Wednesday today, so nine days from now.”

  “It will take you seven, at least, to get back upriver to St. Louis from here, even on a fast steamer,” said Ferguson.

  “We’d better head for the Roman plantation at once,” said Martha, picking up her bags.

  At that moment, the compact man who had ridden the ferryboat with Ferguson scrambled down the path toward us. The Negro ferryman had run another traveler down the shoreline during our conversation, but he was approaching as well on the river, perhaps sensing it would soon be time to take his passengers back to the Arkansas side.

  “Any luck, Pickering?” Ferguson called to his man.

  Pickering shook his head. He leered at Martha, and I stepped in front of her to shield her from his surly stare.

  Ferguson turned back to us. “Pickering runs my fields. He’s just had one of his strongest field boys pull up lame, and I suggested he see if there were any suitable slaves available for purchase. We’ll need twenty men to do our planting next spring, and we’re down to thirteen able-bodied ones at present.”

  “’Course, it’s illegal to buy and sell ’em here in Tennessee, ain’t it, gov’nor?” Pickering said with a wink.

  “It is indeed,” Ferguson said cheerfully. “But fortunately, that island right there”—he pointed to the nearest tree-covered island in the middle of the Mississippi—“is legally part of Arkansas. Whenever we find a bondsman we want to purchase from the market at Memphis, Captain Limus here rows us all out to that island, and that’s where we sign the papers. Isn’t it so, Captain?”

  The ferryman was beside us now, his skiff rocking gently in the waters lapping the wharf. “Yessir, Colonel,” he said, his face as blank as an unused scrap of parchment.

  “Captain Limus rowed Davy Crockett himself across the Mississippi on his last crossing. On his way to Texas
. Isn’t it so, Captain?”

  “Yessir, Colonel,” the ferryman responded, with rather more enthusiasm this time.

  “If he’s good enough for the famous Crockett, he’s good enough for us. Let’s be off, Pickering. It was nice to meet you, Speeds. Any friends of Lincoln are friends of mine for life.” Ferguson shook my hand and gave another gallant bow toward Martha.

  “Before they go, Joshua,” my sister said, “see if the colonel recognizes the picture of the hook-nosed man.”

  I pulled out the drawing.

  “He’s an ugly sort, isn’t he?” said Ferguson as he studied the sheet. “But I’m afraid I can’t help you. Never laid eyes on him, and I’m glad of it. What about you, Pickering?” He passed the drawing to his man, whose eyes lit up at once.

  “I know ’im well.”

  “You do?” All three of us stared at Pickering.

  “Sure I do. That’s Pemberton. Head overseer of the Roman plantation.”

  “That man runs the fields for Jacques Roman? Tessie’s father?”

  “Sure does.” Pickering’s chest swelled as he basked in our attention. “He’s a big man. Got a hundred head under his heel, he does. I’d know him anywhere. And I imagine he knows me as well. If you see him, tell him I sent you.”

  An hour later, atop rented horses, Martha and I cantered toward the Roman plantation through the south Tennessee scrub. Colonel Ferguson had pointed us in the right direction and said we couldn’t miss the plantation house, just beyond Indian Creek on a hill overlooking the flooded lowlands that bordered the Mississippi.

  As we rode, we tried to make sense of the identity of the hook-nosed man.

  “Jacques Roman sent Pemberton to keep an eye on Bingham,” Martha suggested. “Once they got to Alton and he saw Bingham get off the ship, he disembarked himself and steamed south with a report for his master.”

  “There’s got to be more,” I said. “If he’s as domineering as everyone says, I can’t imagine Roman sent his principal man away for several weeks merely to follow Bingham. He could have had anyone do that. Besides, we know this Pemberton character was doing more than observing. We know he was outside Jones’s room when Bingham left him the night he was killed.”